Flinch
by L.M.Lewis
Summary: The difference between skills in the abstract, and skills applied.


Disclaimer: These characters are not mine and I make no profit from them.

Rated: K

**Author's Note**: Why is Mark a crack shot in season one, showing up the judge at target practice using Hardcastle's own gun, and then can't hit a beer can at seven paces in season two, when he goes undercover to catch some crooked cops? Scenes over time—_Going Nowhere Fast, The Birthday Present, _and _Undercover McCormick._

This story first appeared in volume one of the fund-raising fics for STAR for Brian. Again, many thanks to all who supported the cause.

**Flinch**

By L. M. Lewis

**Fall—1983**

With all the excitement that had followed J. J. Beal's unexpected phone call—the visit to Stryker prison and all that followed—Hardcastle had put the question temporarily out of his mind. It didn't return to him until the day after it was all over and Beal was safely back behind bars.

Sarah had shooed him out of the main house; she was still tidying up from the fracas and, besides, the glaziers were fixing the window in the den. Truth was, she couldn't very well object to him cleaning guns in his own den, but he knew she hated the smell of it, and she'd be danged if she'd let him do it in her kitchen.

So he'd decamped to the gatehouse, where McCormick not only couldn't object, but could be put to work. The younger man smiled wickedly as the judge laid newspaper on the table and then set down the .44, the other guns, and his kit.

"I thought you were sending that one to the shop for repairs," Mark quipped lightly with a nod at the magnum.

"Very funny, hotshot. You know how to take one of these apart?"

Mark nodded again as he pulled up a chair and, to Hardcastle's surprise, went about it properly and with an unusually responsible demeanor.

The judge sat down, giving McCormick a not very surreptitious glance as he started in on the other piece, opening the kit and taking out the solvent and the cleaning rods. The silence got almost as thick as the smell.

And that's when the question recurred to him. He frowned at the .44, now in several pieces on the table.

"Where'd you learn to lay down a tight grouping like that?"

Mark glanced up from what he was doing, but whatever surprise there was on his face, it might only have been as much as to wonder why it had taken the judge so long to get around to asking.

"Florida," he said, answering in a way that was probably accurate, but not very informative.

Hardcastle frowned. "The repo biz?"

Mark's eyebrows went up a little. "Hell, no." He shook his head. "I mean, I knew guys who carried, but I never met a car that was worth _shooting_ somebody over."

"What if somebody else shot first?"

"Hah." Mark grinned. "I was very, very fast—in a car or out."

This got a grunt from the judge. And then, to his surprise, Mark went on.

"Nah, it was just for fun. I was, what, seventeen? I'd finagled my way onto Flip Johnson's pit crew—general gopher, the kid who slept in the garage at night so nobody made off with the tools." Mark had taken on a smile of nostalgia, as though he'd been genuinely fond of those accommodations. Then he shrugged once and added casually, "I kinda got adopted by the rest of the crew—a bunch of good old boys, and I was an honorary cracker."

Hardcastle nodded.

"And one of 'em, Willie Lamont, his folks owned some land out in the sticks—too swampy to do anything with. We'd go out there on our off days, and do some plinking. Handguns, mostly, because the ammo was cheaper."

"That wasn't plinking you did the other day," Hardcastle pointed out.

"Well, that," another shrug, "Willie said I didn't flinch. He said that's most people's problem and I guess I don't have it. I just point it and let it go."

The judge gave this some thought and then nodded again. "I suppose."

"It's just one of those things that's easy . . . like driving." Mark smiled. "But it wasn't very useful." His smile flattened a little. "I could hit a tin can or a bull's-eye all right—that part was okay; I never missed. But then he took me out to do some _real_ shooting—well, you know, squirrels and stuff."

"A .44 magnum's kinda overkill for a squirrel."

"Yeah, well, he did this thing called barking—you try to hit the branch right under the squirrel's head. The concussion's supposed to do the squirrel in—either that or the flying bark. I dunno, it worked for Willie; I never came even close to hitting one."

The confession had been made in a very straightforward way, but with a little emphasis, as though the younger man was trying to make a point. Then, as if there'd been any question about that, he continued on.

"The fact is, I'm only good at shooting targets."

An even more pointed look followed that statement. Hardcastle supposed he ought to say something, but he wasn't sure exactly what. He finally settled for, "Sounds reasonable. Lots of people don't like to hunt."

The younger man sighed. There was a hint of impatience to it, as though he'd hoped he wouldn't have to spell it out.

"What I'm saying is, I hope you're not expecting me to shoot anybody. I mean, if I can't even take down a squirrel—"

"Well," Hardcastle interrupted with a smile, "the squirrels don't shoot back."

"I'm serious, Judge. I can hold a gun on somebody and look like I mean it; I'm pretty good at the pretending part—"

"What if the other guy is holding a gun, too? What if it's you or him?"

"I dunno," McCormick grimaced. "Maybe . . . probably. I'd have to think about it."

"If it happens, you won't have time to think about it," Hardcastle pointed out.

"Well, then, maybe we should try not to let that happen," Mark said flatly.

00000

They'd finished the job mostly in silence. What further comments there had been were scattered and random, and unrelated to what had gone before. When they'd both finished, Hardcastle gathered up the guns and the kit, and departed.

Mark sat at the table for a moment, pondering. Then he folded the newspapers in on the dirty rags, and carted the whole thing off to the garbage to dispose of it, still thinking. He wasn't sure exactly why he'd pulled that little stunt two days before—whatever part of it hadn't been luck; he had every right to be rusty.

He supposed it was partly the chance to yank Hardcase's chain, and partly a chance to show off. Wasn't the old donkey always getting his own digs in?

But he figured another part of him must have known what questions would arise from such a demonstration, and maybe _that_ part had even been counting on the opportunity for a little confession. He wasn't sure, but he was mostly glad he'd gotten it out. He figured Hardcastle had a right to know. There were limits, and he needed to be up front about that.

For a law-and-order guy, the judge was awfully casual about letting his ex-con Tonto have access to firearms. But even if he hadn't had the parole board guys breathing down his neck, Mark thought he'd rather do the driving than the shooting. As for what Hardcastle had said, about what he would do if the other guy had a gun—well, he'd have to think about that._  
_

**February—1985**

He'd flinched but it hadn't mattered. The range was that close, and the stopping power of a magnum load allowed for some leeway.

Some part of him that was standing aside, and still thinking in complete sentences, thought _Hardcastle was right; you didn't have a chance to think_. The rest of him was moving forward, checking Sandy. He wasn't hurt too badly.

Weed was still alive. He was peripherally aware of this and for a moment he thought _just winged him, everything will be okay, _though he knew that was a barefaced lie. Alive, and somehow still conscious. There were other people there, too; the motel clerk was hovering around.

He told him, curtly, to call an ambulance. He ignored Sybil; she didn't seem to be capable of anything useful.

And Weed was still alive. There was no avoiding it. He knelt down. He had to.

**Spring—1985**

Rough day. He'd always assumed that cops were a little crazy but this was turning out to be in excess of his wildest imaginings. This particular crew was _dangerous _crazy and here he was, expected to match them stunt for stunt, all the time keeping his eye out for evidence that a couple of them were on the take and acting as hit men.

He'd done that whole Dirty Harry routine in the truck this morning, half for himself, and half to convince Hardcastle that he could handle this. He was actually pleased, though he'd never admit it out loud, that the judge thought he could at least _pretend_ to be a cop.

And now to go from pretty damn-near sure his cover had been blown, to some kind of off-duty, but still totally _cop_ party, complete with indoor target practice—hell, the beer someone had just handed him seemed like a good idea.

And then someone had put a gun in his other hand, at least it wasn't Hardcastle's .44, and he was standing in front of the target—more beer cans of course. He was keenly aware that a few eyes were on him, most certainly the ones that mattered, and that they were expecting the new kid in town to show them his stuff.

_Just beer cans. It's just plinking. _He took his stance, pointed and fired.

He missed.

Four more shots. Four more misses. He briefly considered making a joke of it, or maybe feigning drunkenness, but the eyes that mattered would know he'd only just arrived. Better not to draw any more attention to his failure.

_And maybe they'll all be too plastered to remember it tomorrow._

But he was pretty sure he wasn't going to forget. And he thought maybe he and Hardcastle would have a little talk when this was all over.

00000

"Hey, the commissioner's gonna give you some kind of medal," Hardcastle beamed as he hung up the phone and turned to fill the younger man in.

The kitchen table was spread with newspaper, and the place reeked of solvent, but McCormick had ground to a pensive halt.

"You gonna clean it or what?" the judge asked. "And d'ja hear what I said about the medal?"

Mark jerked a little, startled out of his muse. "Oh . . . yeah," he shook his head. "That'll make me real popular with the speed-trap guys down on San Vicente."

"Nah, none of that." The judge waved it away with a hand. "They don't like the crooked ones either. Somebody had to go after those guys. They'll be glad you did it."

McCormick gave him a dubious look and went back to what he was doing.

"And, well," the judge looked like he might be having a little trouble getting this next part out, "you did okay." He'd stumbled over it hastily. "You did a good job." There, he'd made it sound a little more confident that second time. Then he frowned. "Though the word was you almost blew your cover."

"'_Word_'?" Mark said suspiciously. "Whose word?"

"Oh," Hardcastle hesitated. "A guy . . . Ricky Pulver."

Mark squinted as he considered the information, then a second later he blurted out, "_Pulver_? He was on the roster. I _met_ him." The squint had become a lot angrier. "He knew who the hell I _was_?"

"Yeah," Hardcastle shrugged. "I wasn't gonna send you in there without backup."

"You didn't think I could handle it?"

"Nah, it's not that. It's just that—did ya notice this?—you were kinda _outnumbered_. I just wanted to make sure there was somebody there who could let me know if you got in over your head. That's all I asked him to do."

Mark grunted once. It was only slightly accepting. Then he said, "So, did he ever drop a dime on me? Was I in over my head?"

"You couldn't tell if you were or weren't?" Hardcastle grinned.

"Honestly, Hardcase, I spend so much time underwater around here that I think I'm growing gills." Then his expression went a little more firm. "Seriously, did he call you?"

"Well, no, not about anything he thought needed the cavalry pronto, nothing like that."

"But the part about almost blowing my cover. When did he say I did that?" The suspicious tone had returned.

Hardcastle was giving him a long, hard look. "It wasn't anything major," the older man's voice had dropped down a little, as if to emphasize the incidental nature of the comment. He wasn't fooling anyone. "He just said that maybe I should have sent somebody in who could hit the broad side of a barn with a shotgun."

McCormick felt himself flush. He took a sudden, and very solemn, silent vow that he would never, ever, show off to anyone again. Ever. He shook his head once, as if to second the motion that what had happened at the party had been an entirely unimportant incident. He even added, "I'd had a couple of beers . . . and some shots of tequila."

Hardcastle was looking at him a little sideways, as if to say that wasn't how he'd heard it, but he kept his mouth shut.

Mark went back to swabbing out the barrel, this time assiduously. He'd actually thought he was going to have this little conversation with Hardcastle, _eventually_, but now that the subject had come up, he found he was more than reluctant.

But still, there was no putting it back in the box. It was all spread out between them, like the newspaper and the pieces of the .44.

"You hunted when you were a kid?" he asked casually, still staring down at the part he was working on. It might have been a complete change of subject.

"Yeah . . .some." The judge had pulled up a chair and sat himself down. "Varmits, mostly. We grew some corn. Lots of varmints." He smiled. "And my mom could make stew out of damn near anything."

"Squirrels, even?"

"A lotta little bones in 'em, and not much meat."

"That's what I used to say," McCormick eased back into a smile. "But those guys _liked _'em."

"Well, you city kids," the judge joined in the patter with apparent willingness, "you don't even know what they make hotdogs out of."

"And don't tell me, please." Mark held up one grubby hand. He was still smiling, but then his eyes tracked back down and the smile faded. There was a moment of silence, and then he segued again. "You had to kill people . . . in the war."

"Well . . . yeah, some. Not as many as you'd think. A lot of it is waiting to do something . . . and cleaning up afterwards." Hardcastle grimaced, but there wasn't any apparent embarrassment in it. A job, just harder than most.

Mark was looking up, appraisingly. There was another pause. The judge didn't offer to fill it in. The younger man finally let out a long breath and said, "When the Aunts were here, that guy you shot—"

"The hired killer."

"Yeah."

"Who was trying to shoot you."

"_Yeah._" Mark frowned. Another pause and then, "There's gotta be something wrong with me. I mean, you do stuff like that and don't even blink."

Hardcastle said nothing for a moment. Mark was at least grateful that he hadn't harrumphed and plastered it over with some platitude, something along the lines of 'everybody's different' or, even worse, 'some people are just wimps'.

Instead, he seemed to be giving it a bit of thought, or maybe he was approaching it cautiously. Mark was aware that he'd been a little reluctant to talk about what had happened with him and Weed Randall. _You mean you killed him._ He swallowed once, and started to speak again. "It's just that I—"

"There's nothing wrong with that, with feeling bad about it," Hardcastle interrupted. "It's how people are _supposed_ to be—the part about feeling bad. I'm just glad you didn't let him kill you . . . _or_ Sandy."

"But you—"

"And God help me the day it starts feeling good." Hardcastle shook his head once, slowly. "But something can be the right thing to do without feeling _good_. Some things are duties; you do them because you have to." The judge was giving him a stare that was almost piercing. "It was your _duty_ to save Sandy."

"Then I shouldn't feel bad about it," Mark said insistently. "But I do."

"Okay," the judge, "yeah, but you gotta think that if you _hadn't _of done it, you'd feel even worse."

"Well—"

"Only in this case, you wouldn't have had a chance to feel anything at all, because that guy would've killed you, too."

Mark gave that one a moment's thought, but he didn't have time to answer before the judge spoke again.

"And think of how that would have been, if I'da woke up and found _that_ out, you not having any backup and getting yourself killed, huh?"

"Have to start all over again, breaking in a new Tonto." The moment he'd said it, Mark knew it had fallen flat; that it had come across almost as an insult. He winced.

Hardcastle said nothing.

Mark said "Sorry", without trying to explain exactly what he was sorry about.

The judge still didn't reply—he might have been biting down hard on something, though.

"Okay," McCormick finally said, easing back out of the subject. "I guess I don't mind that you had somebody watching me, watching my back . . . I mean, since it couldn't be you."

"Only 'cause you were outnumbered. Not 'cause I didn't think you had the right stuff."

Mark smiled. "In over my head. _Way _over. I told ya I'd make a lousy cop."

"But," Hardcastle conceded, "a pretty good Tonto.'


End file.
